Whitechapel-At the Crown and Dolphin
by DanielJEklund
Summary: Chandler and Kent are caught up in the case resembling the Ratcliff Highway murders that occurred two-hundred years earlier. However, both men are aware of a growing conflict of interest that is taking place within themselves, which, if allowed, has the power to determine their own fates.
1. Chapter 1

**Whitechapel **

**At the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part One**

Chandler pressed his hand lightly on to the tarmac; rough, uneven surface responding with his clean, soft palm. The junction was empty, sparse of the usual tread of tyres that permeated continually throughout the entirety of the day and night, collaborating with and extending upon the soundtrack of East London.

A slight clearing of the throat from the pavement reached Chandler as he continued to crouch, reminding him of who it was that was standing a few short paces away. He took one last look at the spot which his hand now hovered above; sensing the need to say something further, to provide some form of analysis that would reach into his brain and awaken something, touch upon the very reason perhaps as to why they were both there, in the middle of the dark, cold night, wandering eternally, it seemed, towards further darkness and chaos.

'Sir?'

He stood upright and exhaled, hand reaching instinctively towards the affirming small, off-white coloured pot in his coat pocket. He refrained, however, from applying the balm on this occasion and decided instead to call it a night: it wouldn't do for the horrendous time in which his alarm would be screeching at him once the light returned in a few short hours.

'OK, Sir?'

Chandler turned completely and eyed his Detective Constable; pale, slight figure who was burrowing his chin deeper into his zipped jacket, illuminated from the glow of the streetlamp above. A momentary prick of guilt stabbed at Chandler as he determined himself to be the chief cause of the obvious discomfort; the shivering, which Kent tried to dispel by standing a little straighter, his jawline taking on a sharper definition when raised due to the heavy clamping of his teeth, and there was also an ever-so-slight broadening of his small neck which drew attention to the Adam's Apple that bobbed frequently for some reason.

'Sorry, Kent.' Chandler finally said, 'it's been quite a day.'

'It's OK, Sir.' Kent danced from one foot to the other, heels performing a routine that Chandler hoped would only encourage the spread of warmth from some part of his body.

He moved towards Kent and reached the pavement just in time. A loud whooshing sound emanated around the junction and separated along the dividing lanes, unfurling towards doors, windows, settling amongst brick and finally caressing occupants and individuals who dwelt within. The noise sped towards Chandler and Kent first, however, who both glared into the oncoming beam of light, eyes squinting as hands and forearm were raised as shields.

'OI!' Chandler squawked at the retreating motorbike, taking in the shiny red helmet and cool composure of the rider who leant forward and seemed to be enjoying every second of this unwarranted quantum of freedom which the empty roads seemed to be offering tonight. Kent stared wistfully down the lane of noise and momentarily wished that he too could be caught in the revelry; to adopt the same attitude as the rider and forget destination, to comply only with desire.

'Bastards', Chandler muttered into the night as it resumed with its sereneness, veil of deepest purple above seeming to be returned after the small burst of disruption.

'You'll always get one Sir.' Kent added, 'no matter what time of the day it is.'

'Oh, yes', Chandler picked up the thread as he glanced at his watch. 'I'm sorry, Kent, I keep losing track of the time.'

'Sir, it's honestly OK. The more information we can pick up, or gather, the quicker we get to the heart of this case.' He looked up at his superior and was surprised to be greeted with a small smile that had suddenly landed on Chandler's wide mouth.

'Very good … I suppose we should call it a night.'

Kent allowed his head to drop slightly. His search for warmth was replaced by an acute sense of dejection, which could easily have been misdiagnosed as a continued quest for relative comfort: chin burrowing once more, while frown lines appeared for the first time during their sudden outing to the burial plot of John Williams.

Chandler noted the quick silence but left it alone, deeming it appropriate, not that he wished it so, it was more a sense of unwitting hesitancy that instilled in him the need for caution, and if choosing to keep with his circle of distance, he would be able to read the unspoken language of his colleague in a clearer, comprehensive manner, thereby protecting himself further if necessary. It was a small, correct step in a big world.

Kent kept his attention to the clean pavement, aware of the need to say something, but words couldn't form on his tongue, although they were pooled, collected in his mind and strung together to impose sentences on his skull that used to terrify him beforehand. But the situation had altered now. Completely.

He looked towards the pub on the corner, wishing that it was still open, just so he could hunch over a spare table with a pint and revisit the day in its entirety; beginning with the dewy morning and ending with the small, unstructured interaction that had been created from a passing concern regarding the case with his DI.

He guessed that that would now take place in the security of his own bed, if he ever got there considering that time was hastily growing against the pair of them, encounters, recollections, fragmentary images created and replaced with reality instead, all of this Kent understood, and even anticipated, as he continued with his inspection of the darkened pub windows.

'Right,' he said brightly, 'shall we get some sleep, Sir?'

Chandler nodded as he too finished with his misguided analogy of the circumstances of his day.

'I think that's all we can do for the time being.' He reached for the balm in his pocket once again, fingers grasping at the smoothness. 'Let's head back.'

The two men turned from the junction and made their quiet way back to the police station.


	2. Chapter 2

**Whitechapel**

**At the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Two**

Their footsteps echoed around them as they continued in silence, each musing on the extraordinary feat of maintaining their circumference, yet somehow managing to unlock another precious chamber that would only open on to greater, higher depths that would eventually be scaled and sealed in due time. Kent wasn't as afraid, yet Chandler had never known any other way.

Despite his misgivings on Wilkie and the seeming inevitability that history was once again determined to haunt him with another case, Chandler was actually thrilled to be out in the night; taking deep lungfuls of tainted city air, while ears tuned in and out of the symphonic landscape: tyres jolting across miles of tarmac, sirens ricocheting into the consciousness of citizens, engines rumbling above and leaving thick trails that were not meant to be seen in the vast ocean of deep purple. Voices - happiness and misery, they all intertwined and gave birth to this very moment that was to be shared between Chandler and Kent.

It encouraged him to use his own voice.

'It was good of you to clear up the usual mess on the desks just before we left.'

Kent thought he misheard for a moment, delving into his mind to retrieve the image of holding on to the bin, hugging it to himself while the others left for the night, all endorsing the luxuriant high that came from the confidence of knowing that lights would already be on once they reached home, and the stimulating lack of rehearsed conversation from partners and children that would send them soundly to sleep.

He smiled genuinely, 'Thanks, sir. I don't know why I never bothered before.'

'Because the environment in which you used to work was infected with idleness and tolerated by all for its dismal habits.' Kent agreed with a nod and downturned mouth, remembering his own shoddiness and lacklustre appearance. But then the sun had risen and all were touched by its presence and reach, whether they liked it or not.

Chandler checked himself, did that sound like a rebuke? Possibly. They stopped at the end of the road and turned left, feet seeming to do all of the work automatically while their owners concentrated on the intricacies of polite, stilted responses that revealed nothing of the inner burning that tormented them both; potent words licked at their desires and twisted into images that would never be realised; disposed of instead in the giant grate of their minds, only to float away as embers.

Kent pulled his zip up a few inches, teeth snagging as the line came to an end. Chandler heard the interlocution and allowed his eyes to swivel to the left of him, just catching Kent as he placed both hands in his leather jacket again.

'It's going to be another tough one tomorrow.' He could have been referring to the weather, the day itself or the case that was consuming them all, but Kent settled for the latter.

'Yes, sir. I'll be sure to drink a few extra coffees tomorrow. No doubt I'll be on the paracetamol as well.'

Chandler stopped in concern, aware that he might regret doing so a little later on. 'Will you be in top shape?'

Kent had stopped too, 'Tomorrow, sir?' He queried.

'Yes.'

'I'll be fine. I'm not as delicate as I might look.' He half-laughed, momentarily allowing Chandler to witness the child he had once been: small, round face, eyes creased in joy and amusement and a wicked grin that not only displayed straight teeth but a passion for being on earth in the first place. Was this what had attracted him to fighting crime, so others could partake in that same pleasure too? He couldn't be certain.

Chandler felt an unwelcome frown pass across his face, noting Kent's grin almost slide from his face as he began to fear what he had said.

'_Delicate_?' Chandler reiterated, unaware that his feet were inching ever closer to his D.C.

Kent stuttered as he retreated slightly to the wall at his back. 'Honestly, sir, I'll still be able to perform to the …'

'_You_ took a beating from Jimmy and Johnny Kray when you refused to be bullied by either of them! _You_ were the one who willingly tailed John Leary when we suspected him of being a dangerous killer! Don't talk to _me _of being delicate.'

He turned and continued in the direction of the police station, disappointed in himself for allowing a momentary lapse, a misjudgement that would definitely keep him awake during the last few hours of the night.

How could Kent presume that he was a fragile, slighted presence in the workplace? How could he not fail to see the respect which he garnered and was admired for? He was the glue that bound the entire team together.

Chandler swore to himself as he came across the station in the distance. Kent remained at the wall, eyes beginning to well as he interpreted Chandler's unintended statement; cutting and arranging and fixing it in order once more until a single definition could present itself: attachment?

He wouldn't cry, not here, not on this pavement where his boss was a few feet in front of him, seeming to be lost as he turned his head in different directions, evaluating the scene of parked cars, windows omitting dulled lighting, homeowners perhaps standing for one last cigarette before the comfort of their own dulled dreams lulled them away from the busy world around them. It would only become clear with the returning of the morning light of what it was that had to be strived for, what monotony had to be entertained in order for success to be granted to them all. Chandler didn't envy or sympathise with them, he simply shook his head towards one of the windows, hoping that at least someone would see his response, but it was only Kent's feet from behind that answered, gaining in rhythm as they reached their destination.

'Go home, Kent.'

'Yes, sir.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Whitechapel**

**At the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Three**

'Come with me'.

Those three words, those three majestic words that subtracted and added and opened themselves to a sudden inclusivity that had not yet been known to Kent, despite the graft and length of service with which he had submitted in the hope of some form of earned respect, but recognition would do. Something had been delivered, and surpassed tonight, due to those three words … Come. With. Me.

They had both stood in the dimmed, medium-sized office and wondered at the sudden emptiness of the entire room around them; the team, all disbursed, leaving their appropriate commitments at desks, only to be replaced by another host of requirements that would devour them once they reached their sheltered sanctuaries.

The silence was immediate, overpowering even, as Kent communed with his fears and aimed towards the desk at the very back of the room to which Chandler had just returned. He once again thanked whoever it was that had decided glass would be the suited enclosing of the D.I's office: a clear, unrestricted viewing platform which Kent made it his duty to inspect on a daily basis. He deemed it necessary since he had concluded that Chandler's welfare was his sole occupation during his time spent in the environment which they both shared. The cases they came up against were merely necessary, secondary perhaps, to ensure that the singular figure of continuation could resume with its own duties.

The gentle tap on the opened door, the flicker of surprise in Chandler's crinkled eyes, muted footsteps from above, and a raised voice from somewhere down below.

Kent had simply wanted to perform his daily duty before heading home for the night, the words, 'Everything OK, sir?' taken from his mouth instead and uttered by Chandler who perceived of a changing in the temperature around them, the night beginning to claim the pair of them without their consent. It was automatic.

Warmth coursed through Kent as he lifted his face to the sun once more. There it was; there was that radiance that overrode him, yet stifled him at the same time: equal blessings that created an internal brightness that provided mental clarity and a direct presumption of a future to run towards, instead of from.

He picked at the door frame, extending his arm and wondering why he was doing so in the first place. His brain, however, mulled over the inability to hold on to that wonderful brightness, that clean ray of light that penetrated him completely. He had already returned to the present darkness.

'Come with me …'

Coats were procured, a matter of urgency was declared, and before they knew it they were both standing outside the Crown and Dolphin, struck and desirous of closure.

Chandler watched as Kent turned away from him, the darkness soon swallowing him as he made for the station a few feet away. 'Alea iacta est', he whispered mournfully, holding back the sobering wave of practicality that yearned to wash over him. He chose instead to stand completely still, eardrums throbbing as he finished with his inspection of the darkening figure that grew smaller and smaller. His senses once more became alert to the slightest of movements around him, the internal wave residing yet again.

He reached for the pot in his pocket and twisted the lid, almost inhaling the balm as he dipped a finger in and began with the massaging of temples. It would do, for now.

There was no need for awareness of the outside for Kent, he was too imbibed with the flush of passion that had rushed from Chandler in his accidental outburst: '_You!_ _You!_' His mouth had twisted, the cheeks became hot and red, the eyes crinkled further in their sac of skin, becoming pinpoints almost. Yet, it had all been directed towards Kent with an undertone; there was something life-changing to be taken from those five or so seconds that had transpired between them. The entire night had seemed to be full of guidance and symbols that would only come to be read in the accurate setting which they rightly deserved: on the double mattress in Kent's neatly organised bedroom. He would lay down in boxer-shorts, on his side, and cross his arms as he stared out of the window just opposite of the bed; gathering and replaying, constructing alternative outcomes and infinite possibilities that could be shared between Chandler and himself in the real world; in the shoddy, complicated and hazardous reality which they lived.

Kent continued down the road as he thought of the few remaining hours that lay ahead of him. A smile creased his thin lips, and he had to admit it to himself: he was happy. Decorated at last with the affirmation that he had craved from the one man whom he had just left, standing at the end of the road as if his celestial judgement was imminent, unaware of what he had gifted to his junior colleague. Or was he? That was something which Kent could now take apart and recast.

He wanted to turn and peer for the familiar, loping figure who wore a perennial expression of inquisitiveness that simply refused to leave Kent once he closed his eyes for the day and opened them once more in the heavy, dirty-yellow morning that subsisted on petrol and the spent energy of thousands, no, millions and millions of people, all coming together and contributing to the pressure of the planet, well, this small corner of it.

Instead, Kent stopped before the station and noted the freneticism that was naturally invested with the building: feet hurrying to and fro, aged lights switched on and off just as quickly, patrol cars sliding over raised entrances and resting in secure spots, detainees swearing once they were shimmied from car to building; tongues lashing the walls of the courtyard in profanity and attempted threats, they were all there, this meagre offering, or attempt, at twenty-first-century policing, which Kent was very much a part of.

He kept to his easy, casual pace as he entered the yard, wishing he had the courage to follow where his body was aching to return: the desk in the far left corner upstairs in the Incident Room, the role of adopted guardian inhabiting him once more as he hunched in front of the computer, sensitive to the movements of Chandler who was only a few short paces away from him.

He searched for his keys and quickly retrieved them as he came before his Vespa, the other true joy in his disciplined life that had been the result of a reckless whim but had actually paid off, quite handsomely too.

He climbed aboard, reassured and determined at the same time to do something productive once he reached home, to celebrate the outcome of an unorganised rendezvous with Chandler.

Although he couldn't say it out loud, he knew that he was no longer alone and despite the pretence that would, or possibly, just _might_ travel with him into the office later on, there was now a different atmosphere to contend with: the gradual awakening of the true state of themselves and of who they were as individuals, not to mention what they could resurrect and accomplish in a raised partnership. It was enough, for now, Kent presumed as he kick-started the engine into life, catching a reflection of his helmeted head in the mirror at the same time, he was developing and changing alongside the man whom he most wanted to: the giant star in his life.

He added a parting spurt of fumes as he left the courtyard, steadily making his way back to the nocturnal divination session that awaited him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Whitechapel**

**After the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Four**

Chandler reluctantly accepted the paper cup, taking in the damp blue spread that was the sleeve of the cup itself, growing warmer to the touch as he glanced at the steam spiralling from the indenture of the lid.

He'd felt clumsy as he stood before the illuminated screen, scrolling and tapping, tapping and scrolling, searching through an endless catalogue of processed substances that caused his stomach to rumble in disapproval; or had that been his ordained lack of spontaneity that rattled inside of him, a gentle nudge of remembrance at the occasional gnawing at his outlook that was his existence? Either way, there was clearly no green tea to be had. So, he'd turned away from the vacant self-ordering touch screen and hesitantly approached the modern, slick counter that radiated of artificiality, simply asking for a cup of hot water instead, it was something which he could at least take direction from as he settled in the seat, awaiting Miles.

It was superficial of him, he knew that, but he needed encouragement and a dose of clear, invective dialogue from Miles would soon shock him into submission. His colleague would expertly open and salvage through the inner chasm and scatter the darkness in his own unique spin, eventually managing to recapture the embers of lost prose and make a torch from them instead. This was essential, tonight especially.

Chandler had carefully wiped the seat a few times before sitting, making sure that the table was free of any minute detriment also. He still felt unsettled though, uneasy of his surroundings, what with the hoarse laughs and squared groups of boisterous youths who all eyed and inspected one another from across the restaurant with apparent casualness.

What was he doing here?

_Are you free? _

_What had he been thinking?! _Of course Miles wasn't free, he would have fallen asleep as soon as he'd reached the settee at home; collapsing into the cushions primarily from worry, the potential loss of Judy toying with his concentration all day, devastation reminding him that it could easily enter his reality and destroy him. Chandler was very much aware that Miles was being tested, but his stern fortitude was sorely in need and he couldn't help but give in to his selfishness as he'd stood at the end of the road, peering further and further at the shrouded figure of Kent, who walked with a bounce in his step.

He'd known right there, standing still and searching, not wanting the figure to disappear completely, he knew what he'd just contributed towards and what would now have to change: himself. Kent too had now subscribed to the same branch of consciousness that Chandler had recently felt himself gravitate towards; they were planted and about to become intertwined …

He picked up the paper cup again and delicately sipped, taking in more steam than water, trying to discern some form of flavour to it, but the notes merely escaped him.

The main door slid open, grumbling as it did so, a short gust of bitterness following in invitation, as well as a dogged set of footsteps, which quickly turned in the direction of the man seated with his broad, suited back to the door.

The footsteps belonged to a man of average height who wore rat-like features: pointed nose, prevalent set of upper teeth and sharp eyes that narrowed and more-often-than-not sneered at whomever they were addressing.

'_McDonald's?_' He greeted in a gravelly, nasal-heavy voice.

Chandler turned and sagged inwardly with relief, allowing an admission of complete ease to compose his form, a composure which would eventually settle and direct the encounter that he wished to share with Miles.

He raised the corners of his mouth, one higher than the other, as he stood, almost towering over the figure.

'Miles. Thank you for coming.'

He extended his arm and patted his sergeant lightly on the shoulder, who sniffed in response and took the opposite seat.

'Never had you down as a man of convenience,' he mumbled, though Chandler could detect the warmth that lay underneath the hard greeting.

'It was the only venue that was open.'

'_I'm not surprised!_ _It's nearly four o'clock in the morning!_'

Chandler remained standing, looking down at the mop of grey hair and slouched shoulders encased under an emerald-green coat.

'Would you like a drink?' Snap of silence. 'A milkshake perhaps?'

Miles immediately scowled upwards, the harsh strip of light above enhancing his red-raw face, as if it had just been freshly scrubbed by a nail brush.

'Sod off.'

'Black coffee it is then.'

He was left to stew in his sullenness as Chandler once more proceeded towards the counter, animated by the wonderful bout of ease that reigned within. An image of Kent threw itself at him: the flickered smile, how bright the brown in his eyes became as he did so. No, the hazel in his eyes.

Miles scowled further in a token of gratitude as Chandler placed another paper cup on the table; lid hastily peeled back as if Miles was desperate to catch whatever was inside.

'I do appreciate you coming out.'

A nod.

'… Especially with Judy not-'

'She's in bed,' he said softly, 'and that's where we'll leave her.'

It was Chandler's turn to nod.

Miles stirred the steaming black coffee and took pleasure in doing so, seeming to become lighter as he crossed his legs, sitting at an angle and in the process of pulling the scowl back, only for it to be replaced by a weariness, a sadness even, which touched Chandler.

'You'll recover from this, Miles …' It would have been necessary, vital maybe, for some other form of compassion had he been with anyone else: an outstretched hand, a few more kind words, an embrace to help relocate the here and now; the ever-present, unfortunate fact that life continued. It had to.

'Not to worry, boss.' He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then continued to stir the coffee.

'What can I help you with? You seemed anxious to talk.'

'I'm …'

Chandler wasn't sure now. Was he anxious to relieve the questions, the uncertain likelihood that he was going to have to alter and bring in this new phase of himself? The new habit of being consumed by a constant desire, distracted by the tethered days that would eventually turn into years, the sense of caution that he would have to abide by, as well as the fleeting, hesitant moments that they would snatch; at his place? Maybe not.

Chandler wanted to bang his head against the table but was only too conscious of Miles's penetrating blue gaze, almost smirking as he finally despatched the stirrer from the cup and took a deep gulp of the swirling liquid.

'I'm not really, urm … supposed to be-'

'Maybe it's you that needs the milkshake, cool yourself down …'

'_I don't want a milkshake!_'

A definite smirk. Chandler took the deepest of breaths, encouraging his thoughts to flow naturally and concurrently, fixing the night he'd just experienced as a springboard: start from the first hesitant steps and work towards the sudden unmasking.

'I need to discuss this, and you're the only person, the only person I could think of messaging at the time.'

'No skin off my nose. I'm an unwilling participant of the cat-napping society, or the CNS as we like to call ourselves. I woke the other night from the fish coming up for air in the garden.'

The moment was too solemn for Chandler to appreciate the anecdote which Miles dressed his concern in.

_I'm not as delicate as I look._

No, he wasn't. They could handle this.

He laced his fingers and rolled his shoulders as he brought in a clearer form of Miles, reclaiming the endless ease which his friend caused him.

'Have you ever wondered at the grip which fate has us in?'

Miles's bushy grey eyebrows rose a few extra inches as he answered, 'Not really. Once you get to my age, you get past that sort of stuff.'

'Yes, but, even so, don't you … don't you wonder at whether we're supposed to be where we are, and what we do … _who_, we do it with?'

'No.'

He should have known better, even though he knew he wasn't making much sense, he wanted Miles to catch the drift which he was offering him: let me speak in riddles and conundrums while you figure them out and offer remedies.

Chandler looked towards his still-steaming cup and gripped it for no obvious reason. It must have made sense though, for Miles aimed his towards his mouth again, eyes roving over Chandler as his stomach welcomed the contents.

'I think I'm changing.'

Miles digested this piece of information also, trying to piece the few sparse sentences that he had been given, lines dropped irregularly and with no clear context.

'OK,' he added, 'in what way?'

'In the biggest way.'

'… Such as?'

'You know.'

Miles guffawed, 'I really don't, boss.' He tried to quieten again, looking around the bright room for something to catch his attention, but there wasn't much on offer: a group of young girls sharing a tray of fries, giggling infectiously as they honed in on the keen attention they were receiving from the number of lads around the room. It would have been all too easy for Miles to portray an unhealthy dose of envy towards them all; the green-eyed monster rousing and striking at their spare energy, their futures, their unshackled sense of the every day that they enjoyed wholeheartedly. But he instead offered them a silent blessing, remembering his own mischievous youth.

He smiled warmly as he came back to Chandler, who was now rubbing his temples rather maniacally, eyes closed and mouth becoming paler and thinner.

'_Boss?_'

The massaging continued.

'What is it?'

Chandler stopped and finally opened his eyes.

'Kent …'

'_Kent?'_


	5. Chapter 5

**Whitechapel**

**After the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Five**

Kent closed the door as gently as he could, ever conscious of the hanging chain that often swung back and forth, tapping against the pane of chipped glass in the frame, as if a tree had been planted in the hallway and long limbs of branches extended and composed perfunctory ditties whenever movement occurred. The front door itself was a rather battered one: peeled layers of paint instilled a distinct impression of neglection upon inhabitants and visitors, a dereliction of care that was contagious to the area where Kent lived.

He instinctively made his way in the dark hallway; lowering his bag and helmet on to the polished side table and gingerly stepping into the room on his left.

He was suddenly ravenous, stomach bubbling from nothingness as he neared the tall fridge, wondering whether it was safe enough to permit light. He decided on the affirmative and thought he heard a cough from somewhere as the kitchen softly came into existence; spotlights embedded in the ceiling lent the room a glow of warmth and homeliness that had been missing throughout the night. Not while he'd been with Joe, no, that was a different sort of warmth, a welcome piercingness that really never left him, nothing matched that, even the comforting sensation he now experienced as he rummaged through the fridge. Joe was Joe.

He reached for a pack of cheese and began to pull at the slices, keen to shove anything into his mouth to satiate the need for substance, just to extend his wakefulness and retire to bed with a delicious fullness of body and mind.

He ate a few more slices and turned towards the kettle, the creaking of a door coming to him while he procured a mug.

'I thought it was you.' A soft, drowsy voice said as it entered the room.

A woman of medium height with long legs and cropped blonde hair yawned as she pulled at the string around her waist, briefly exposing her tanned midriff as she secured a tighter knot on her shorts.

'Busy day?' She enquired.

Kent raised his eyebrows in response as he reached for another cup.

'Yeah, been a bit of a mad one.'

She went towards the sideboard and picked two teabags to dump in the cups, then lifted herself so she could sit next to the sink.

'You don't look too bad.'

A laugh, a deep one from Kent as he leant against the fridge and folded his arms.

'I don't actually feel that tired, for some reason.' Of course he knew, he understood his reasonings quite clearly now. There was no need to sleep, that could be overcome with the elixir that was Joe, Chandler, Detective Inspector, whatever his correct title was: they had formed and were on the precipice of success. Together.

'_It was good of you to clear up the usual mess on the desks …_' He had noticed, he had watched as Kent went from desk to desk, clutching at sparse wrappers and empty cans and bottles, just so he could linger and emulate some of the traits which his boss had displayed: an obsessive need to cleanse and realign the centrality and ritual of routine and existence.

The kettle clicked.

'How about you, anyway?' he resumed, going over to it. 'Work go OK today?'

The girl on the counter shrugged, 'So, so. I've already checked out,' she said flatly, 'as far as my brain's concerned, I'm already in Wetherspoons at the airport.'

'Yeah, and missin' your flight, havin' to take a week in Margate instead.'

She reached for the chequered tea-towel and threw it at Kent, who felt it land on his shoulder.

'I think Cuba's a bit of a step-up to Margate, _mate_.'

They shared a quick tirade of affectionate insults and then gripped on to their warm mug and cup, allowing themselves a short, pensive moment in which they could appreciate the effects of being in one another's company, as well as basking in the stimulants which the tea brought out within them.

'I take it Jamie's asleep?'

'Yeah, I couldn't sleep myself. There's no point going back to bed, I've gotta be up in a few hours.'

'Me and you both.'

She had wondered at his obvious alertness as soon as she'd come into the kitchen: the pleasure in his eyes as they fell across her, not sleepy and heavy, or laced with annoyance. There was something a little, different, about him, she had noticed it a few days ago but refused to query it.

'I know you can't talk about it, but is the case going OK?'

Kent gestured indifference in the form of a shrug. 'Yeah. No. We're still questioning suspects …'

'In other words, keep your nose out?'

He chuckled, 'Yeah, I'd say so. Did you talk to Jamie about your mum?'

'Yeah. You know what he's like though,' she placed her cup beside her and became focused in anticipation of something. '_Honestly, don't stress about it_ …' Her voice had adopted a dim grunt as she continued in earnest.

'_She's had these scares before_. Swig, swig.' She then mimicked the lifting of a round object to her mouth and wiped it clean after.

'_Anyway_. _Where's _my_ dinner?_' She finished the impression and reached out for her flowery cup once more.

'It's like he's sittin' before me.'

She rolled her eyes.

Kent did feel for her, he couldn't, or wouldn't, fathom the prospect of losing his mum, not just yet, his world wouldn't turn quite as naturally once that moment came. Yet, Sophie displayed an admirable streak of calmness in the whole matter. She was obviously a strong woman.

'I know I said it before, but I _am_ here if you ever wanna talk.'

She flashed her dimpled smile, 'I know, Em. Thank you.'

'What d'you reckon- a bit of cheese on toast?'

Sophie grimaced, '_Urgh_, no thank you. I'll stick to tea.'

'I'm starvin''

'Have you eaten today?'

Had he? He wasn't quite sure. Drunk, yes, but consumption of food? Perhaps not. A stick of gum from Riley, a gesture of motherly kindness which he had come to appreciate in her.

'Yeah, grabbed a sandwich earlier.'

'_Liar_.'

He danced around the room as he grabbed the required ingredients, not taking into account the consideration of his other sleeping housemates. Their sleep was too deep to be rumbled now, they would be in the company of other ghosts from the past, or maybe stepping into other worlds where they could create and control the lifestyle they were desperate to carve. It didn't matter. He was hungry.

Sophie checked her phone, scrolling through nothing as Kent stood before the grill and encouraged some of the warmth towards his face.

'I take it you'll be living at the station until the case finishes?'

'Yeah, prob'ly. But you get so used to it that you stop noticin' after a while.'

'I wouldn't be able to do it.'

'Sometimes I can't.'

He left it at that, not adding that he only did so was because of Joe, who didn't even have to say anything to him, just his presence through the glass could motivate him back out on to the winding, twisting streets of Whitechapel, constantly searching for a trace, a familiar face that could provide and open a gateway to somewhere else. It was all connected.

Even so, would he still be as keen to spend his days chasing clues if Joe hadn't arrived? He didn't answer, merely examined the bubbling cheese under the flames, splashing Worcestershire sauce on to the orange and pushing the tray back under for a few extra minutes.

Sophie yawned again.

'_Oh, hurry up Friday!_' She moaned.

'Not long now.'

'It's only Tuesday, Em.'

'Havanna's not going anywhere.'

He switched the grill off and quickly dropped the slices on to a spare plate.

'Sure you don't want any?'

Sophie's attention lingered over the droplets of grease, the sogginess of the bread and the brown bubbles that rose and cracked. 'I'll leave you to enjoy it. I'm gonna take a shower.'

Kent bit into the cheese and sucked in a mouthful of it, mumbling a farewell to Sophie as she dropped to the floor once more and left him alone.

Birds twittered from the outside, heralding the beginning of a new working day as the city came back to itself and began to wake. Kent, however, stayed with his cheese and bread and contemplated whether or not to simply jump in the shower after Sophie and head into the office, or at least try and catch some rest and respite? He remained where he was and wondered at the activity that Joe might now be in; surely he would be at home and asleep?

He heard a soft buzzing from the hallway and quickly went out to it, hurrying his steps in case Jamie or Shaun awoke, not that he needed to take the necessary steps to prevent such measures, as Sophie was now making more than enough noise for the both of them in the bathroom: pressure of water hitting the tiles, shampoo bottles dropping and reverberating loudly around the entire flat, completed by the flushing of the toilet, which seemed to echo profoundly in this sacred stillness before the dawn.

Kent shook his head slightly as the buzzing continued around him, responding by digging his hand into his bag and retrieving his phone. He stared down at the name that was imprinted across the screen: Chandler.


	6. Chapter 6

**Whitechapel**

**After the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Six**

Kent recognised the need to answer, otherwise, Joe was going to take himself away once more and retreat into the safety of his role, pacing to and fro in his office whilst piecing the facts that had so far presented themselves to him regarding the Ben Salter murders.

He couldn't help but become momentarily mesmerised as the name continued to flash up at him. Chandler … Chandler … Chandler …

He swiped across the screen and raised the phone to his ear.

'Sir?'

'_Kent_ … I'm sorry. Did I disturb you?'

'No, sir. I was just about to …' He had to think of something plausible, something that would enrich his existence to Joe and cause him to wonder how it must feel to share the same day and night, together, permanently fixed in a solid partnering that would come to rival that of Hadrian and Antinous: empire building but envisioned in a familiar, local environment that would replicate modern ideals. Boundless.

He heard Sophie in the bathroom, gargling water in apparent wilfulness.

'About to … use the bathroom.'

He cringed at himself, lifting his other hand and pulling a furious face at his palm: _WHY?!_

A short silence followed the remark as Kent held his breath.

'_Right_. Look, I know this is not … professional, but are you at home?'

'Yes, sir. I got back a while ago. Everything OK?'

He thought he could hear a motion of some sort in the background, a gathering of speed, or a pelican crossing beeping into the morning, allowing solitary figures to presume with their unwanted journeys.

'Absolutely fine,' Chandler continued, 'I was wondering if it would be possible to have a word with you for a moment, I won't keep you too long. It's just …'

There was definitely some sort of busyness taking place; a woman's engaging and sensual voice whispered into the conversation: 'The Prime Minister there. In other news, forthcoming events for the Olympics are reportedly-' A rushing noise, as if Joe was caught in a tunnel.

'_Sir?_'

'… I, forgot to mention something from The Crown and Dolphin.'

'Oh, right.'

The woman's voice spoke into the muted interlude.

'It's silly,' Chandler sighed, 'it can wait until we both reach the office.'

Kent felt himself panic, mind tumbling and tripping over itself as he desperately tried to clutch at some form of extension, to bring something closer which they could both perhaps comment on, providing a brief commentary. However, suddenly finding himself disregarding the sense of urgency entirely, Kent mellowed in the hallway and felt seduced: it was wonderful to have his voice echoing pleasurably down into his ear canal; this was another design, a brand new alimentation to further the burgeoning portfolio that had thus been the night.

'It's not a bother, sir.' He said happily. 'What can I help with?'

Chandler remained quiet for a few seconds, maybe he had already gone, had already returned to his familiar characteristics and thorough image that contained the identity he presented to humans whom he came into daily contact with.

'I meant, have a word. In-person?' He finished. There, it had been delivered.

The floor vanished and Kent allowed himself to fall.

It was a kaleidoscope of colour which he surrendered to, the blackness that persisted so diligently in their world had been eagerly stripped back and overcome by a riot of varying hues as if a palette had been left unattended and smeared instead around Kent. He spotted a shimmering goldness that seemed to slither towards him, aiming for his feet and wrapping itself around his legs, his waist, squeezing at his buttocks and encasing his chest. It was lovely. It seeped into his skin and replaced the stark whiteness that was his shell, painting him in the livery of the gods and enforcing his self-belief, his desire to remain attached to the giant ball of fire that was Joe, together presiding over the shimmering outlines of the constellation, both using its symbols and celestial marks as a letter of love to mere mortals down below.

He turned in the hallway, straightening his vision as if he had just risen from a bright, warm pool.

'Are you there? _Kent_?'

'Yes. _Yes_.' He repeated, 'Still here, sir.' He wanted to sit and reflect properly, just as he was supposed to have done once he reached home; taking himself to his bed and gazing, refiguring and reconstructing, delving into the intimacy they had been privy to on the cold, dark street. Something wonderful was happening and it deserved to be treated reverently, handled with care and respected. But all Kent could do was simply remain where he was and engage further with his superior.

'No problem, sir ... if you need to come around ...'

'_Great!_' Chandler's enthusiasm (and relief?) elicited a smile from Kent as he made to go towards the kitchen.

'If you're able to let me know your flat number and postcode, I should be there directly?'

He closed the door behind him and quietly issued the required letters and numbers down the line, taking his time in case a misnomer aggravated their distance and derailed the tentative circuit which they had both been circling in their own, unique way.

'Thank you. I'll see you in a moment.'

Kent placed the phone down on the worktop and tried to concentrate.

Joe … Joe was coming here, to speak to him? What for? '_I forgot to mention something from The Crown and Dolphin_.' Had there been a complication with Wilkie? Had he suddenly dawned on a suspicion whilst they had been discussing John Williams? His only hope was that the small, significant part that he had played in the case so far was not about to be hindered due to a lack of foresight, or even, interest.

But he knew, and he knew that he knew, they both knew what the alternative direction could be, but it was the baring of the soul that restrained and bothered them; their almost-Victorian sensibilities stifling and correcting them, prohibiting a full revelation to one another as to who they truly were as individuals. This had all been ascertained throughout the night. Yet, this new, sudden addition could perhaps go against the grain and serve as the foundation of a much-needed rebirth.

He continued to stand: processing, computing and counting too, mainly of the hours that had seemed to fluctuate, but he couldn't flutter the last spare few, it would be counterintuitive. He shocked himself back to awareness: did he have any herbal tea? No. _Shit .._. What of his home? It was far too early to begin an apprehensive dusting of the flat, shaking a few cushions and blankets in the living room only to spread a mist of microcosmic mess. It would all have to be presented as it was: scattered, unkempt, yet inviting, to him at least.

Sophie remained in the bathroom, luxuriating in the spare minutes that had been given to her from lack of sleep: spend your availability under the gushing warm water, massage your hair and cleanse your body in anticipation of the day ahead, the bathroom had seemed to whisper to her as she'd drunk her tea with Kent. Both Jamie and Shaun's lairs remained quiet and still, for now.

The early morning ticked away while Kent stood by the kitchen window looking out into the car park below, searching with hungry eyes for the smallest sign of his arrival. But there were only other rooms being lit up and reflected back to him, highlighting delicate, shaky movements behind blinds and nets that accompanied his watch. That was until a beaming set of headlights flashed into his vision from the ground.

He was here.

The bathroom door opened and Sophie re-appeared, rolling the handle in her hand as she was about to enter the kitchen once the door re-opened. 'I thought you might have gone to bed for a bit?' She asked, securing her fluffy, green towel around her lithe body.

Kent turned quickly from the window.

'Nah. Just had a call from my boss.'

'Oh.' She seemed slightly disgruntled, perturbed that a man whom she had heard little of was encroaching upon her flatmate's personal space and presumably felt the need to discuss work matters so early in the new day. She wouldn't have stood for it, but at the same time, she had to remind herself that Emmerson's job was an entirely different entity.

'Nothing serious, I hope?' She resumed, beginning to shiver as she finished filling the glass with water.

'Nah. He's just coming to discuss somethin' about the case. He won't be here long.'

She wanted to leave him with a, 'I hope not', but deemed it unnecessary.

'Ok, well I'll be next door if you need anything.'

'Thanks, Soph.'

They parted once more and tended to whatever it was their bodies or minds craved. For Kent, he tried to gain an impression of Joe from the outside, but there was no figure to be had. There was only a gentle tap on the door that reached him from the hallway, urging him to move towards it, but he stood where he was and tried to address the apprehension that had suddenly risen within him.

'Go to him.' A voice inside his head encouraged, was that his mother? 'He's waiting, for you.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Whitechapel**

**After the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Seven**

They both sat a little nervously; each tending to the expected course of interaction that was next to fill the small space between them. Chandler leant forward as if he would lunge from the sofa at any moment to reclaim his protectionist encasing and make his way, stiffly, back to the parked car below. Kent, however, displayed no trace of agitation or affiliation with some other sense of knowingness which his train of thought had now imposed on him. He couldn't be certain, but there was now a faint glow, a trail almost, of hope that had suddenly engorged within him once he'd opened the door to Joe.

They stood, awkwardly for a few seconds, alone and undisturbed in the iris-coloured morning; the covered silence emanating from the ground upwards, the intense spread of artificial orange from the dotted lampposts around the estate, and Joe, standing erect and prepared with a delicate smile aimed directly towards the middle of Kent's chest.

They each greeted one another in a sportsman-like manner: affable and keen, yet slightly perturbed from the dizzying effects of speed and ambition, which had only brought them full circle. Here. Now.

Kent rested his hands on his knees and patiently waited, while Chandler stared around the small room as indiscreetly as he could. He took in the remnants which helped to inform and make-up a small part of his colleague: a poster of an old and friendly enough-looking bulldog with the words 'No More Idols' printed in bright yellow letters underneath, and a small hi-fi standing to attention by the large windows with a few CD cases lying open before it: discs haphazardly left lying upside down on the cabinet. There was, however, no real evidence of the man sitting before him, no history or other items on display that could offer a relative and apparent understanding of Emmerson Kent, whom Chandler now wanted to get inside of and devour imminently. He wanted to encroach upon his memories, his daily fears and habits, his speech bank; he was simply hungry for the opportunity to witness the world through a fresh and renewed pair of eyes, and Kent seemed certain to be the only one who shared these same forms of expression.

Chandler realised he had been silent for too long, not that Kent was alarmed by it; he'd been trying to tune in, merely to form how best to gently offer of a cup of tea, and a chat, perhaps, as this was surely the reason why his boss was now seated in front of him – to possibly talk and go over the stream of undisclosed information that had bound them together earlier and brought the cold night towards them?

'The place, seems … nice' Chandler finally offered, bringing his attention back to the sublime individual before him. Kent smiled affectionately in response noting the strain which the words had seemed to place on Joe.

'It's nothing,' he confidently said with a wave of his hand. 'It gets a bit crowded here at the best of times.'

Chandler nodded. 'Even so,' he reflected, 'it seems …'

'Would you like a cuppa? I'm afraid I haven't got any herbal tea in.' He wanted to stand, to distract Joe from the unnecessary art of contrivance, and to settle somewhere else instead, even if they weren't exactly where they truly wanted to be.

Chandler's eyebrows raised slightly at the intricacy of the gesture: a genuine and warm invitation to comply and relax; to settle and fondly embrace whatever was being installed between them both.

'Yes, I … uh, would like …'

'Or, there's lager.' Kent continued, 'I know it's early, but hey …'

'Just wine, if you have any,' Chandler said, feeling himself shuffle back a few inches on the worn-looking sofa.

'Great.'

And with that, Kent lifted himself from the armchair and disappeared for a few minutes back into the kitchen, allowing Chandler the opportunity to fully inspect the extent of Kent's chosen style of living and existence.

The first word that came to his mind was, neglect, it had been apparent from the moment he'd stood in front of the door: chipped paint greeting his nervousness, cobwebs gathered around the hinges, the chipped pane of glass, and then the interior of the flat itself. A combination of a disordered world lost within a disordered world enclosed upon his senses: vulgar, woodchip wallpaper that could have been there since the 1980s, pressed down upon him; thin laminated strips of wood caught the sounds of his heels and echoed his presence around the flat; as well as a lingering scent of burnt cheese and grease that seemed to follow him from room to room. Chandler had found it hard to settle and tried not to appear so uncomfortable, but he knew he'd already failed.

He brought himself forward on the sagging sofa once more and closed his eyes for a few seconds: _I'm not judging you_, he thought to himself, _I just don't know how to do this correctly_. He quickly opened his eyes as he heard footsteps approaching him once more.

Kent was holding out a plastic cup which contained ruby-red liquid, and a can of beer for himself. His index finger briefly touched the back of Chandler's hand as he passed the cup towards him; the skin soft and opulent, rivers of veins bulged as if desperate to flood the room, to explode and leave a permanent impression that could never be erased, or shifted. Fine, ginger-blonde hairs displayed themselves admirably to observers, stopping just below the wrist, to perhaps allow for an estimation of where else the trail of hair led to.

Kent almost bowed as he resumed his seat, eagerly cracking open the cold can and taking a quick few gulps of coldish courage. Chandler looked into his cup and surprised himself by mirroring Kent: two eager gulps of the immersive-looking liquid that he hoped would be able to fill him with the same sort of penchant for delivery as poets tended to do.

'I know you don't really like drinking out of used cups,' Kent began, 'but if you want to drink from the bottle instead, that's fine by me.'

Chandler smirked, 'I feel like I could do with an IV drip at this point in time.'

They both sniggered then, nervously.

'It's good stuff, though' Chandler swirled the wine a little as if he was looking for something.

'Yeah, it's alright. Sophie's keen on it, not so much myself.'

'_Sophie_?'

Kent lowered the can after taking a swig. 'Yeah, she's my flatmate. Well, she's Jamie's girlfriend, but spends more time here than he does.'

'Oh, right.' Did that sound like disappointment, Kent wondered? He continued in any case.

'Yeah, she's a great girl, always gotten on well with her. And you?'

Chandler wriggled in his coat, '_Me_?'

'Do you live with anyone?' Kent knew of course that he didn't, but he was warming to the topic of conversation and wanted to investigate this man as thoroughly as he could with what little time they possibly had.

Chandler shook his head, 'No. I … I don't think I'd be the ideal kind of person to live with.'

'How come?'

Chandler wanted to overcome the questions, to smash through the wall that he'd built between them, and to heed what Miles had advised back in McDonald's, which felt like another lifetime ago: 'Just be honest, Joe. That's all I would say. There's no point going backwards and forwards, especially when it seems like you've already decided what it is you want to do …'

He took his time as he considered an adequate response. He created whirlpools in his cup as he shifted through the same question: How come I wouldn't be ideal to live with? There was no definite answer to supply, other than what he'd created all those years ago and learned to revere almost as an old friend: fear. And that was the simplest way in which he could correctly analyse his interior character and all the consequences that had arisen from this choice of identity. He wouldn't be ideal to live with because he lived in constant fear of something catastrophic striking him or those around him whom he loved. Like Kent?

The plastic cup became still once again.

'I've never known any other way, other than to live by myself and accept it,' he finally said, keeping Kent in his vision so he could read some kind of reaction to the diluted admission he'd offered.

'Doesn't it get boring at times?'

'_God_, yes!'

'Do y'want another top-up?'

Chandler felt a frown land upon his features. 'No. Thank you.'

'It might help with the day ahead.'

'Kent, look …'

They both drew breath; Kent gripped his can firmly and waited, suddenly becoming attuned to the noises from the outside: tweets from sparse branches, a distant rumble from an engine in the sky, a pedestrian crossing waking up for the first time that morning, and voices, from somewhere.

Chandler also took in the soundtrack of Kent's contained community, and suddenly shifted himself in the process, feeling completely defenceless, naked almost, as he moved from the sofa towards his colleague: his awesome colleague whom he now never wanted to part from, to attach himself and share whatever he had; not the material features of himself and the accoutrements of his career, but the bare hope, the passion, the thrilling instability of it all, he wanted to pledge it all to Kent, now. Wasn't that what he'd admitted to Miles?

Kent looked up at the towering figure and again waited. What else could he do?

'I know this is difficult, for both of us, but there's, no point in avoiding it any longer. Wouldn't you agree?' He felt slightly stupid as he looked down at the upturned face, which had now become a pale white; translucent, as if he'd just heard something he'd never thought possible.

'_Emmerson_?'

He too stood, slowly this time as he placed his half-full can on the carpet, straightening himself and wondering whether he was about to be shaken awake, roughly, by hands that would eventually form into a mouth to inform him that he was late for work.

None of that occurred though, there was only a tall man standing before him whose bright-blue eyes had completely softened and seemed to reflect something which Kent felt could only be himself.

'_Joe_?'

Chandler nodded and risked moving his hand towards Kent, aiming for anything that he could get a hold of, but the impulse had been too restricted. Footsteps reverberated around the flat once again and a deep cough from the bathroom informed Kent that reality had awoken and was not yet ready to dispense with the two men who were currently frozen in the living room.

Once the shock of intrusion had worn off, however, Chandler swiftly turned his head towards the hallway and once more to Kent. He laughed, gently, as if to say: You must get this all the time, and Kent responded with the same open laugh as if to say, 'Yeah, you're right. I do.'

The toilet was flushed, lights were hastily switched on, and Kent instinctively finalised the ceremony between them both. He moved his hand forward and enfolded Chandler's into it, surprised at the level of warmth. Chandler immediately looked down and felt fear overcome him once again: the dirt, the layers of shame, the persistent need to cleanse and reform, the desire to break away, from it all … the old companions stabbed at him and his hand shook, lightly.

Kent felt it as he looked down and a few seconds later raised both hands to his chest, where Chandler could finally feel the racing throb underneath Kent's shirt.

A smile. An opening of a mouth.

'Come with me.'

Kent said softly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Whitechapel**

**After the Crown and Dolphin**

**Part Eight**

Miles wasn't exactly surprised as he'd already imagined what sort of life Joe led outside of the office: solitary nights spent captured within his apartment, brooding and caught up in some past point that refused to ever leave him … twisting and tormenting him until he sank into unconsciousness and allowed himself some respite and the possibility of another, alternative environment in which he could be given the chance, and choice, he seemed so desperate to be in search of.

All of these grey images had passed through Miles upon first meeting his boss; the flurry of his impatience and the need to prove something, and it had been understandable, of course, but now there had been a dynamic shift, and Miles was pleased and equally relieved for his colleague, and friend.

He shifted once more in his seat as he took another inspection of Joe. The restaurant had become empty but there were a few figures seated and standing to attention before the counter, stragglers devouring chips and meat and contemplating whatever it was their next course of action was to be.

Chandler, however, continued to stare into his lap, eyebrows lowered and an impression of complete resignation resting upon his shoulders. He had admitted, for the very first time to another human, who he was, not only as a man but also as a resident in this part of the world: a permanent and very real individual, who was now ready to shift into the next phase of his existence _with_ Emmerson, there was no doubt, how could there be? He had opened chained gates for Chandler and allowed a mixture of the known and unknown to burst forth and spread themselves all over the world, well, Whitechapel to begin with.

'_Joe_?'

Miles gently brought his colleague from out of his reverie, reaching forward at the same time and resting his hand on the broad shoulders of a man who had suddenly changed in front of his very eyes.

Chandler tried to gain extra immunity, or strength, from Miles's small hand, eventually raising his chin and rubbing at the wetness in his eyes. Purple stars and black holes formed in his vision, was there something there to be read, or was he finally on the cusp of that last step which the slight dizziness urged him towards? He opened his eyes once more in any case and blinked the patterns away.

He tried to place the red, raw features of Miles in front of him; but they had gone, there was now only an open mouth which displayed yellowish, prominent teeth gathered together to form a warm and encouraging smile. Chandler responded with equal warmth and bowed his head delicately in acknowledgement of his friend's depth of character and the support he was unquestioningly offering.

'OK?'

Chandler nodded, 'Thanks.'

'Alright.'

Miles sat back and gave himself over to the plastic seat again; shoulders hunched slightly as he rubbed his back against the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

'What's to be done with Kent?'

Chandler gripped the paper cup merely out of habit, but not as firmly as he ordinarily would have done.

'I think the best thing to do would be to get in touch with him once more …'

'_Joe_,' Miles sounded slightly exasperated. 'You don't have to be so polite. _Go and see him_. I'll guarantee it's what he would want.'

'You …?'

'Yes, I _do_ think so,' Miles interjected, also reaching out towards his cold cup of coffee. 'This dallying between you two has been going on for _months_, especially on _his_ part.'

'You knew?' Chandler tried to initiate a flashback within his mind as he sat a little straighter, desperate to alleviate any form of fear that would prevent him from carrying out the one act he knew could be his inaugural attempt at trust and complete acceptance, the one pure gesture that he could possibly venture forth with from this moment hence.

There had been occasions when he had been sure that there was something in Kent's composure that betrayed some inner torment, an inner stirring that could sometimes become audible, as well as visual, particularly in the workplace: a small offer of coffee that contained an attempt at something else, a hesitance in approaching Chandler directly when others were gathered around him, discussing ideas and case witnesses; the constant presence of someone behind him, not lurking, but silently enquiring and … protecting? Now that he thought of it, perhaps that's exactly what Kent had been tending to so diligently this entire time: the gathering and eventual beginning of some kind of protection that was unconditional and one not entirely based on merit either. It was possible. Anything now was.

Miles sighed, 'I wouldn't say, _knew_, exactly,' he continued. 'It was a question that I'd asked myself from time to time, not that I mentioned anything to anyone else, especially the chap in question!'

Chandler nodded, feeling the door slide open behind him.

'It just seemed that the lad was forever watching over you; I'd even caught him a couple of times glancing in at you while you were nose-deep in paperwork, you know … to make sure you were doing alright, I guess.'

'Waiting to be of assistance …'

Miles nodded this time as he sniffed and shrugged his shoulders.

'I think he was waiting for the right moment … to tell you something.'

Just as he'd possibly hoped earlier in the evening, Chandler thought, jumping back into place behind his desk once again as the wary figure of Kent leant against his office door and picked at the wooden frame as if aiming to find a spare bit of courage in which to initiate something. And that cold, curt order: '_Go home, Kent_', as if he were there simply to be dismissed. It was callous and unnecessary.

Hadn't he even, late last night, finally found the one word that defined his colleague as he lay face up in his empty bed and brought forth from the shadows the sense of awkwardness which Kent exuded? It had come to Chandler so naturally, so intuitively that he wasn't quite sure why it had taken him this long to recognise it. _Cute_. It had sprung at him, and as he lay there staring up at an unseen moment from the day, Chandler grinned and didn't begrudge himself for doing so. _Cute_, that was Emmerson Kent in one single, sweeping definition, and it suited him profoundly.

'Why didn't you … No …'

'_What_?' Miles offered.

Chandler reflected for a moment before answering. 'I was going to ask why didn't you say anything, but I'm grateful to you that you didn't, as I'm not sure what kind of response I would have given.'

'It wasn't my place, boss. I knew there was something bothering you, and when I spotted Kent getting up to what he does, it seemed as if you two had either had a row or were avoiding one another over something.'

'I think we were.'

They sat in silence for a few moments, each contemplating the revelations and significance of the situation. The only certain thing that could be ascertained, or perhaps come to be relied upon, as usual, was the fact that in a few hours both men would be reaching out towards squawking alarms and adjusting to the harshness of the morning light in their own unique way, all in preparation for another day of the difficult Ben Salter and his death, which seemed likely to never quite leave them in peace. Both Chandler and Miles could easily relinquish any possibility of a refreshing newness to rise and infect them, they could simply walk away from the open course of discussion that had been proffered towards them on this night and instead tread the same twisted, cumbersome path in the same twisted, cumbersome manner that had been their chosen style of living for as long as they could each remember.

But there was another option, not just for them but for all who came within their orbit: Take the opportunity even if it's not entirely formed, don't stagnate and transform into a gigantic mass of earthly waste. There were always other paths and wider avenues that were simply waiting to be made use of.

Miles swirled the cup and watched the black liquid slosh from side to side, while Chandler released his grip from his own cup and left the now-cold water to itself entirely.

'I'm going to head off, Miles.'

He looked up, a stray wisp of grey landing just above his eyebrow.

'No worries, boss.'

'Thank you for meeting me.'

'He'll be awake …'

Chandler agreed with a grimace, only hoping that he wouldn't be distributing his own sense of alertness from an unhealthy lack of sleep upon the man he now wanted to climb into bed with and talk openly, followed by a day or so of undiluted sleep.

'Will Judy be awake?'

Another shrug of indifference from his DS. 'I guess so. She was asleep when I left her.'

Chandler stood and now placed his own hand on Miles's slack shoulder, wanting to say something to bolster his courage and anxiety over the state of his wife's health, but as he stood and looked down on the familiar light grey head, Chandler realised that nothing _needed_ to be said: his grip on his shoulder signified more than what his mouth could in that moment.

'I'll see you later on.'

'Just be honest, Joe,' Miles said, preparing himself to vacate the restaurant also as he downed the contents of the cold cup. 'That's all I would say.' He stood and began towards the door, walking alongside Chandler back into the night, which was ever ready to claim them.

'There's no point going backwards and forwards, especially when it seems like you've already decided what it is you want to do …'

Chandler burrowed his chin towards the collar of his coat as the two of them stepped outside, tentatively judging the opportune moment in which to turn and begin.


End file.
